


A Lion with Another Mane

by blackcoffee423



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Teen Angst, just some musing about the origins of her haircut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffee423/pseuds/blackcoffee423
Summary: Back at the Cobalt Soul, a younger Beau wrestles with boundaries, self-image, and, somewhat literally, her instructors.(mention of blood, description of hits and bruising, but nothing particularly graphic)
Kudos: 12





	A Lion with Another Mane

Beauregard sniffed and tipped her head back, willing the loose brown strands plastered around it to free her vision with a shake. Her face was beaten and bruised, some yellow, some purple; some fresh and nearly bloody, with puckers of broken vessels threatening not to stay contained by the last layer or two of skin.  
A slash revealed itself across the tip of one high, angled cheekbone, maybe two inches long. A thin tendril of hair stubbornly stuck in the reddish ooze dripping from it. She leaned in a little closer to the mirror, checking the cut’s depth as she slowly turned her head back and forth. One bashed finger poked at it, and she winced. An immediate steeling reaction rippled through her, bounce back with a muscle that was well trained to forge a tough exterior.  
Teeth gritted, she stood squared towards the reflection. No one else was in the lavatory, most of them still upstairs in the training ring, or maybe even now cleaning up. It was still and quiet. But they could come in at any moment to get their things from the racks or use the bath tubs. She told herself she didn’t care if they did. Her deep breathing got ragged. 

A voice had called out, ushering her out of the ring.  
_Lionett— remember your place._  
She’d paused, and pawed her way sideways in the dirt, getting on all fours first, then finally rising to bare feet. Walking away without looking back, she had convinced herself not to check who saw. Her flat, hard footfalls stirred up dust clouds as the sounds of sparring slowly picked back up behind her.  
She couldn’t help herself; watching the girl she loved getting beaten in a battle. Again. And again. It was just training, but they were still hits; a barrage that a body would feel for days to come. She knew all about that. She couldn’t keep her eyes away. If she could just—  
Jumping in, abandoning her own match, she announced herself with the sound of splintering wood. Fibres and chunks flew, spraying her face and fists. She held her ground, low stance and staff held up to parry, her body granting space for the one behind it to catch a breath and get up. Then a hit blindsided her, knocking her face down in the dust.  
Then came that reprimand. 

She was tired of this. Tired of being told what to do above logic. Over needing to search for space for the vibrant eyes blazing an otherworldly blue between ragged, knotting dark waves. So soft.  
She wasn’t a little girl anymore.  
Locating a box of grooming supplies, she grabbed a razor blade in one hand and roughly peeled hair away from sweaty skin with the other. A deep breath, then a light scrape came as the razor’s edge met her temple. The hair resisted, some cutting unevenly at first. She made another pass, then another.  
Clumps of brown fell to the floor as she worked slowly. Despite the emotion roiling through her veins, breaths still shaking, this monk training had given her something: her feet were planted firm and wide; her hands were controlled, forming clean, deliberate lines.  
Twenty minutes later, she shook her head again, tipping forwards and brushing away the last of the hair off of her shirt. When she straightened up, a cobalt tie had found its place atop her ponytail. She could see clearly in every direction.


End file.
